The Phantom Herd | Page 8

they were. One, he judged, was
of California make, or at least came from the extreme southwest of the
cattle country. It had a good deal of silver on it, and the tapideros were

almost Mexican in their elaborateness. The bridle on that horse
matched the saddle, and the headstall was beautiful with silver kept
white and clean. The rope coiled and tied beside the saddle fork was of
rawhide. (Luck did not need to cross the street to be sure of these
details; observation was a part of his profession.) The other saddle was
the kind most favored on the northern range. Short, round skirts, open
stirrups, narrow and rimmed with iron. Stamped with a two-inch border
of wild rose design, it pleased Luck by its very simplicity. The rope
was a good "grass" rope worn smooth and hard with much use.
Luck flipped a match stub out into the dust of the street, tilted his small
Stetson at an angle over his eyes, went over to the horses, and looked at
their brands which had been hidden from him. One was a Flying U, and
the other bore a blurred monogram which he did not trouble to decipher.
He turned on his heels and went into Rusty's place.
On his way to the bar he cast an appraising glance around the room and
located his men. Here, too, a less experienced man might have
blundered. One, known to his fellows as the Native Son, would
scarcely be mistaken; his dress, too, evidently matched the
silver-trimmed saddle outside. But Andy Green, in blue overalls turned
up five inches at the bottom, and somewhat battered gray hat and gray
chambray shirt, might have been almost any type of outdoor man.
Certain it is that few strangers would have guessed that he was one of
the best riders in that part of the State.
Luck bought a couple of good cigars, threw away his cigarette and
lighted one, set the knuckles of his left hand upon his hip, and
sauntered over to the pool table where the two men he wanted to meet
were languidly playing out their third string. He watched them for a
few minutes, smiled sympathetically when Andy Green made a scratch
and swore over it, and backed out of the way of the Native Son, who
sprawled himself over the table corner and did not seem to know or to
care how far the end of his cue reached behind him.
Luck did not say a word to either; but Andy, noting the smile of
sympathy, gave him a keenly attentive glance as he came up to that end
of the table to empty a corner pocket. He fished out the four and the

nine, juggled them absently in his hand, and turned and looked at Luck
again, straight and close. Luck once more smiled his smile.
"No, I don't believe you know me, brother," he said, answering Andy's
unspoken thought. "I'd have remembered you if I'd ever met you. You
may have seen me in a picture somewhere."
"By gracious, are you the little fellow that drove a stage coach and six
horses down off a grade--"
"That's my number, old-timer." Luck's smile widened to a grin. That
had been a hair-lifting scene, and Andy Green was not the first stranger
to walk up and ask him if he had driven that stage coach and six horses
down off a mountain grade into a wide gulch to avoid being held up
and the regulation box of gold stolen. It was probably the most
spectacular thing Luck had ever done. "Got down that bank fine as
silk," he volunteered companionably, "and then when I'd passed camera
and was outa the scene, by thunder, I tangled up with a deep chuck-hole
that was grown over with weeds, and like to have broken my fool neck.
How's that for luck?" He took the cigar from his lips and smiled again
with half-closed, measuring eyes. "Yes, sir, I just plumb spoiled one
perfectly good Concord coach, and would have been playing leading
corpse at a funeral, believe me, if I hadn't strapped myself to the seat
for that drive off the grade. As it was, I hung head down and cussed till
one of the boys cut me loose. Where did you see the picture?"
"Me? Up in the Falls. Say, I'm glad to meet you. Luck Lindsay's your
name, ain't it? I remember you were called that in the picture. Mine's
Green, Andy Green,--when folks don't call me something worse. And
this is Miguel Rapponi, a whole lot whiter than he sounds. What, for
Lordy sake, you wasting time on this little old hasbeen burg for? Take
it from me, there ain't anything left here but dents in the road and